


Our Life Is Not a Song or Maybe

by turnyourankle



Category: Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-05
Updated: 2008-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon is befuddled when he first meets the Panic! boys. Especially with Brendon. Tour fic set before Jon joined PATD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Life Is Not a Song or Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost from LJ -- slowly working my way through those.
> 
> Inspired by the WAC [oct 30 07](http://community.livejournal.com/we_are_cities/156095.html) prompt. Many thanks to [lovebashed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebashed) for cheerleading, and to [darksylvia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/darksylvia/pseuds/darksylvia) for the fantastic beta.

Brendon, Brent, Spencer and Ryan are sitting on what looks like a corduroy couch. Four boy-shapes angularly stacked up against one another. They look like an old picture from a family album, only with a slightly more updated wardrobe. One's leg is bouncing; one's hands are folded in his lap; one's head is almost buried in someone else's shoulder; one's long legs are stretching dominantly across the linoleum floor. He can see William holding court out of the corner of his eye; William sighs heavily, none of the boys reacting the way he wants them to. Jon doesn't know who's who yet, just—

”The beer's over here J, stop pussyfooting around,” Tom catcalls, and Jon's attention shifts easily back to him, he files the snapshot in his mind for later, when he'll have to associate equipment with names and faces. He'll have to tease William for the feeble seduction attempts as well.

 

.

 

January is iced: roads, drinks and tongues, all thinly coated with it. Jon learns that the heating in The Academy's bus works better if you turn it on and off three times successively, and that only the window furthest from the mounted tv can be cracked open without compromising the overall indoor temperature. 

Tom smokes more as an excuse to be outside, ”Birdwatching is very much a sport,” he says, mouth loose around a cigarette, aiming his camera at a neon sign. The only evidence of birds ever having been present, a few scattered feathers on dusty spikes on top of the bright rectangle. 

”Invisible birds don't make you a bird watcher, they make you a nutcase,” Jon says. He's perched on a stone wall, his feet level with Tom's shoulders. He's lining up beer bottles on his right; a collection that they emptied single-handedly. Something for the kids with BB guns to shoot at.

It's a rare occasion, the beer doesn't usually last long enough for them to drink it on their own. Tom's usually the one sent out for a case or two, or however much he can carry and oh, why don't you take Jon with you? They always try keeping a case for themselves, but it's hard separating the common stash with their own when Bill starts using the bottles as poker chips that the winner gets to drink. Their tour could be sponsored by Budweiser and there still wouldn't be enough drinks to last. 

Jon spends most of his nights in a sleeping bag in the lounge of The Academy's bus, nose pressed into the wall and t-shirt moist from spilled beer and sweat, trying to avoid the damp spots on the carpet and more often than not, failing. If he's lucky, no one says what the wet spots consist of. 

Sometimes he leaves before daylight; when Siska's combined too much pot and alcohol and wants to tell the world and Tony is on damage control duty; when Tom's camera almost ends up violently connecting with a wall.

This time it's something new. William's had too much to drink, and has folds himself in two from laughing too much, too loudly. He's petting Mike's hair and Mike's averting his eyes. This isn't something Jon's supposed to see; Jon gathers it's not something Tom's supposed to see either, considering the way his lips are knotted, the line of his sloping shoulders and arm making a diagonal line as he the bus door slams behind him. 

Mike doesn't look at Jon when William disappears, loudly stumbling into the bunk area. From where he's sitting, Jon can see William's bare foot dangling from a bunk that isn't his.

Mike doesn't say anything when Jon leaves, Tom's camera in his hands and half of a full bottle left on the kitchenette counter. 

There's a light on in Panic's bus – as always, whenever he passes it after dark, This is the first time that he notices someone sitting on the stairs, playing with a lighter. He's slumped, feet pointing inward, glasses reflecting the light from the flickering flame. It's Brendon. ”Hey,” Jon calls, voice raised, and kicks up a mixture of frost and dust as he changes direction.

”You haven't seen Tom, have you? Or anyone for that matter, I guess. I don't think a lot of people would be wandering around aimlessly at this hour.”

”You'd think wrong then,” Brendon says, scrunching up his nose. ”But no, no Tom. Unless he's started dressing up in mini skirts, but I don't think he has the legs to pull that off.”

Jon snorts, and loosens his grip on Tom's camera, hanging it around his neck. ”He really doesn't.” Brendon smiles wide. 

"I, have some cigarettes if you're out?" Jon says from where he's standing. It's maybe a little too loud, because Brendon's head jerks up, as if he hadn't noticed someone walking up to where he's sitting. "I mean, not mine, but I don't think Tom'll remember how many he smoked tonight anyway."

"Thanks," Brendon says, almost whispers. "That's okay though, I don't think that's exactly the best thing for my voice. Or my body, or mind, you know. I don't mean that like it's bad to smoke, I mean it is, but like -- you can smoke if you want, I have a light!" Brendon flicks on his lighter, keeps the flame steady.

"S'okay, I don't smoke," Jon says, repetitively toying with Tom's cigarette pack in his hand, the soft carton giving in to the pressure.

"Really. Cause you smell like smoke a lot. Not like, a chain smoker, but it's definitely there." Brendon pauses, his mouth still slightly open. After a beat he says, "I have a very fine sense of smell. Some people like to call it a gift. I'm shutting up now."

"Hey, s'not like I'mma remember this tomorrow." Jon is nowhere near that drunk, but Brendon's words are blending into one another from the speed of his talking, and he doesn't really want Brendon to avoid him after tonight, or any other time, really. 

"You are a very bad liar, Jon Walker," Brendon says, narrowing his eyes but with a small smile on his lips. "But that's okay, it's a very good quality to have." Jon's lips stretch over his face, and he shrugs. ”Hey so, aren't you gonna take my picture?” Brendon nods at the camera dangling from Jon's grip, and looks at him, really looks at him for the first time. 

It's not Jon's camera to use, really. But Brendon's biting his lip and his knee is shaking slightly. It's probably just the cold. It probably is, but Jon can't really say no. He shrugs and adjusts the camera, waits for Brendon to pose in some way. He doesn't, just smiles, really smiles this time, baring teeth, and keeps looking at Jon through the camera lens.

There's a soft scuffle from inside the bus, and Jon suddenly feels like he's intruding. Brendon could be waiting for one of the girls in the mini-skirts, or maybe he just had a fight with someone else in the band and is sitting it out. He nods his head towards the blackness of the parking lot. "See ya," Jon says before turning leaving, Tom's camera bouncing against his chest. 

 

.

 

Brendon's sitting in the back of an equipment truck before soundcheck, a (stolen) fruit basket at his feet. "Except,” Brendon says, licking orange juice from his lips, ”it's not really stealing, because no one else cares about their daily vitamin intake." He's leaning against a pile of empty amp boxes, orange peel curling at his feet, forming a perfect spiral. It wouldn't surprise Jon if Brendon actually arranged it that way.

”Mmhm. Are you saying contracting scurvy is a probability?” Jon says, his nose tickling from the citrus smell. ”It's not something I was warned about when I signed my contract, and I really should be getting paid more if it is.”

Brendon's fingers are stained with dried zest, small yellow flecks coating his fingertips, but he doesn't seem to care as he pulls Jon down next to him. Jon as he steals an orange cleft from the palm of Brendon's hand.

”Jus' keep eating Lays and drinking screwdrivers and you'll be fine.” Brendon smiles wide, and licks his fingers. Jon laughs, almost choking on the piece of orange still in his mouth.

"Or," Brendon says, an expectant grin forming on his face, ”you can just stick with me.” He squeezes Jon's hand in his, and as Jon focuses on holding in a sneeze, Brendon leans in close and kisses him, licking Jon's lips lightly but steadily.

It's really not something Jon was expecting, but it's nice, firm and somewhat reassuring. Brendon's fiddling with the collar of Jon's shirt, but he's not making any attempt to take it off, or place his hand inside. He's just touching, lightly, and okay. Jon doesn't really think anything more beyond that, just lets his lips slide against Brendon's. 

Jon's not sitting very comfortably, legs half folded and wedged between the amps and the empty basket. But the angle's good, and while his foot is going to be numb from Brendon's weight pressing down on it Jon doesn't really want to move. He shifts a little, ends up in a worse position and one of Brendon's hands on his hips. He can live with that.

 

.

 

”Jon Walker,” William says and pauses dramatically. 

”Mmm?” Jon feels a little flustered, but William doesn't seem to care, he leans over the table, hands spread out on top. He's pushing down, making the plastic tabletop give in a bit.

”I heard that you've been fraternizing with the enemy.”

”You do realize teetotalism is a legitimate lifestyle choice, and not a personal attack against you, right?” Jon says, and frowns. ”We've discussed this before.”

”They may be young, but I swear they are not as bendy as me,” William says, ignoring Jon's question.

”You do know I'm under this table right? Bill?” Brendon's voice is heard from under the plastic table, his sneakers sticking out on the side where William's standing.

”Yes, and I would fit under a table half that size.” William jabs his finger onto the table, seemingly to make his point. ”It's okay. I understand, Walker. It's time to let you test your wings.”

 

.

 

From what Jon can tell, the only true thing people say about Brendon are that he talks a lot, and that he clings. It's not in the way they mean though, he doesn't cling to Jon unless Jon wants him to, and then Jon clings right back. He might actually be clingier, but it's really not his fault that Brendon's hair is so easy to ruffle and that Brendon fits so easily under his arm. 

No, when Brendon's not attaching himself to Jon he clings to instruments. He finds them all, and does...something. Jon hasn't quiet figured it out yet, but he caught Brendon behind Spencer's drums once and he looked a lot like he was meditating, except with a much sexier expression. It didn't feel right to look at, so Jon left, and didn't speak to Brendon about it. He's thought about it once or twice though, it's really not the kind of thing you forget.

"They all have their own tone," Brendon volunteers when Jon finds him strumming his guitar. It's horribly out of tune and Jon cringes at the sounds. Spending your days taking care of other people's guitars doesn't really leave much time for your own.

Brendon looks pleased though, "Tells me all I need to know about who owns it," he says and licks his lower lip as he keeps strumming a melody only he knows, and he smiles as if it sounds exactly the way it's supposed to. Jon can only look on for so long before he wraps around Brendon, face buried in his hair, trying to make out what Brendon can hear. Jon almost goes out of his way to see what Brendon does to people's instruments after that. Brendon lets him.

 

"Ryan won't let me touch his instrument," Brendon says, and pouts exaggeratedly, lips and eyes shining. He spears a soft carrot with a plastic fork and drags it across his plate. (This isn't the first time Brendon complains about this. After Jon had anxiously commented on how close Brendon and Ryan seemed, Brendon frowned and said, ”You'd think so. But he won't even let me tune his guitar.” He seemed really peeved about it. Jon didn't really understand why at the time.)

”Is that a metaphor?” Tom asks, chewing his gum and smirking at his bad joke. ”Cause from what I hear touching instruments really isn't an issue for you two, unless you're talking about adding Ryan's into the mix, in which case I'd be happy to play mediator.” 

Jon just rolls his eyes and ignores him. ”You know he's possessive about it. I tuned mine if you want to give it a try again.”

”God, seriously, get a room, you guys.”

”We're really only talking about instruments. Musical instruments,” Jon says. 

”Jon, I'm serious, I must draw a line now. I don't want to hear about the noises Brendon makes during sex, it's just too much information.” He's mock serious, brows furrowed and palm flat on his chest. 

”You know Tom, now that you mention it, I don't think I've ever laid hands on yours,” Brendon says, raising both his eyebrows. Jon's face is turning red, and he doesn't really care if Tom thinks it's because of all the laughing or because of Brendon's foot is brushing the insides of Jon's thighs under the table. 

 

.

 

Jon knows how to stay quiet in bunks, holding his breath and letting it out slowly, letting his muscles vibrate instead of letting out loud noises. He's so accustomed to biting into pillows that it turns him on more at this point. Brendon on the other hand, well, Brendon's currently keening Jon's name.

”Jon. Jon, seriously, if you don't move right...now, I swear --” Brendon squirms under Jon's grip, tilting his hips, almost poking Jon in the eye. Jon's holding down Brendon's hands and licking his inner thighs. Thick stripes moving closer and closer, only to retreat again to the other side. 

Brendon manages to hook his legs over Jon's shoulder, tugging him closer, and Jon submits, licking a circle around Brendon's dick before taking it in his mouth. He sucks slowly, thoroughly, trying to savor the texture and the barely salty taste. All Jon can make out is a loud, ”Oh, oh,” before Brendon lets out an indecipherable high-pitched moan. 

Jon lets go of Brendon's hands then, he tries to kneel and stroke his own dick while simultaneously reaching up to Brendon's mouth with his other hand. Brendon bends as much as he can, and sucks on Jon's fingers the same way Jon's sucking his cock. 

Brendon swirls his tongue around the fingers, and Jon does the same to his dick. Jon slides his fingers in and out of Brendon's mouth as much as he can, prompting Brendon to jerk into his mouth. It's not very comfortable for Jon, but it silences Brendon a little bit. 

Brendon's hands are heavy on Jon's scalp, pulling the hair and making Jon’s head closer, closer. Jon swirls his tongue around Brendon's dick one last time before relaxing his throat and letting Brendon's dick slide all the way in. He closes his eyes as Brendon lets god, fucking his mouth, and jerks himself off as best as he can. 

Brendon bites Jon's fingers when he comes, and they slip out, dented and slick with spit. He groans loudly, unintentionally kicking off the comforter out of the bunk.

 

Jon's not surprised when he and Brendon get cornered on the couch the next day.

 

”Band meeting means meeting for the people actually in the band,” Brent says slowly. He's ignoring Jon, even though he's taking up a third of the couch and obviously the subject of Brent's rant. 

”He's not here in the Jon-capacity, he's here as furniture. And massage machine,” Brendon says, wriggling his bare feet in Jon's lap. ”I really liked what you were doing with my big toe,” he adds, and flashes a smile in Jon's direction.

”It concerns him too, it's only fair that he should hear it,” Ryan says, putting away his guitar. He looks like he's on the verge of rolling his eyes, but it's nothing unusual.

”Oh, I know what this is about,” Brendon says. ”I am putting my foot down on this point though, there's no way I'm sharing him.” 

”Okay, ew.” Ryan looks over at Jon, in what he assumes is meant to be a neutral way. He's less frowny than usual, at least. ”No offense dude, from what we can hear, I'm sure you're great.”

”None taken,” Jon says, and nods. Ryan ignores Brendon's limbs, spread out on the couch, and drops down, making Brendon sit up straight for a minute; as soon as Ryan's folded his legs Brendon spreads out again, this time with his feet on Ryan's knees and shoulders pressing into Jon's chest. Resting his head in the crook of Jon's neck, he almost nibbles and unsubtly hints that Jon should massage his shoulders instead.

”Listen, all Brent's trying to say is that if you don't stop with the sex noises, we're evicting you.”

”Jon can stay though. He's quiet,” Ryan says.

Spencer adds, ”And he smells nice. He doesn't leave dirty socks lying around in the bathroom sink.” 

”That's cause he's not actually living here. And he shouldn't even be here now,” Brent says pointedly.

 

”I cannot believe you would betray me in such a way Spencer Smith, you know the sink's the only place to wash socks.” Brendon says, feigning disgust. ”And how do you even know he's the quiet one? Casting a lot of stones here, for loud alone-timers. Why's it not okay when someone else is involved?”

There's a beat, and Spencer says, ”I know I'm not supposed to say anything, but he makes a good point,” Ryan clears his throat, and Brent keeps staring at the floor. Spencer looks at Ryan and shrugs.

”As much as I hate to say it,” Ryan starts, ”I have to agree. But I reserve the right to write songs about executing revenge on people who put their sex lives on display.”

”And I will sing every word with pride.” Brendon grins, and snuggles closer into Jon. 

 

.

 

Jon must look somewhat bug-eyed when he stumbles into the lounge. He registers Brendon standing by the kitchenette frying something, and Spencer says, ”It's okay, he's done this before. We have a fire alarm and all the exits are cleared.” Jon just blinks.

”S'my turn to make breakfast,” Brendon says, shaking the small skillet in his hand. "Salt and pepper," Brendon says, ”is all you need, to eat fried eggs. I had to hide the ketchup from Ryan because he drowned the eggs with it. Looked like a massacre had taken place.” 

"S'true," Spencer says around the brim of his cup. "It was more like ketchup with a side of eggs."

Jon nods, ready for Ryan to jump out from under the table or from behind a curtain and accuse him of backstabbing if he actually says anything. A blue plastic plate with two fried eggs is placed in front of him, and Jon dives in. It's already been salted and peppered, and Brendon beams at him from across the small table. 

”Do you even eat eggs?” Jon asks between bites, genuinely curious.

”Not really. But I know how to make 'em. Next time I'm doing my pancakes with peanut butter M&Ms. You have not lived until you've had some of that.” 

 

.

 

”We have to celebrate,” Brendon says before backing up against the bus and pulling Jon close to him, hips grinding on his. 

”Oh, yeah?” Jon stammers, before diving in for a kiss, mouth pressing hard against Brendon's, tongue pushing his. Brendon undoes the button on Jon's jeans, and pushes a hand inside before breaking away, biting his lower lip. 

”Mhmm, guess who let me play with his guitar?” He says, and tries to smirk. His tongue pokes out and his fingers wrap around Jon's dick, pumping steadily.

”Is that – a metaphor?” Jon says, and groans and Brendon's thigh comes up between his legs, rubbing. ”If you keep this up,” Jon says breathlessly, as Brendon nips at throat, hand still working inside ”I'm gonna have to hand you over to Bill.”

”I suppose I can live with that, I hear he's bendy,” Brendon says, and jerks one last time as Jon comes, spilling over his hand. ”I'm not sure he's gonna like you leaving a mark on his bus though.”

”I'm pretty sure it'll guarantee me the top spot on his most wanted list.” Jon kisses the bridge of Brendon's nose, and leans his forehead against his. 

”I heard it's pretty lonely at the top,” Brendon says, and Jon can tell he's smiling even though he's got his eyes closed. 

”It is, it is.”

”Whaddya say to getting me on that list too?” Brendon says before grinding against Jon again. The friction's nice, and warm, even though it's way too soon for him to get hard again.

”I very much endorse that plan.” 

 

Comment and let me know what you think! All kinds of feedback is appreciated.


End file.
